“Natalie?” said Mohan Lal. “You mean the black?”
“No, the fat one.”
Ms. Farber clicked her tongue from the armchair, where she was reading. “What did you just call her?”
“Call who?” he said.
“Natalie.”
“Natalie? You mean fat?”
Ms. Farber’s lips pursed with indignation, and she peered at him over the rims of her reading glasses.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just thought you would have a little more empathy — you’d be a little more sensitive after all you’ve been through.”
“All I’ve been through? What’s your freaking problem?”
“Siddharth!” said Mohan Lal, his voice stern and menacing. “Don’t you dare speak that way to Rachel.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Siddharth. “What ever happened to loyalty, Dad? I thought loyalty was the greatest virtue.”
Now Siddharth put down his Playboy and picked up his glass. As he finished off his purple concoction, he recalled the strange thing his father had said a couple of days after the Natalie incident. Mohan Lal had needed some salt for the driveway and rechargeable batteries for Marc’s old Walkman, which Mohan Lal had begun using, and he’d made Siddharth accompany him to the store. On the way home, Mohan Lal grasped Siddharth’s knee and told him he wanted to say something. Siddharth said, “I’m listening,” feeling hopeful. Maybe his father wanted to apologize. Maybe he would finally admit the truth about Ms. Farber — that she was a bossy bitch who talked too much.
Mohan Lal paused to let out a sigh. “Son, I want you to know something.”
“What is it?”
“Son, I want you to know that not once — not a single time — was I unfaithful to your mother.”
Siddharth groaned, then grabbed his head and stared out the window.
“And it’s not that there weren’t opportunities,” said Mohan Lal. “But I couldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t hurt my family.”
Siddharth went to the kitchen with his empty glass and dirty dinner plate, which he loaded into the dishwasher. He needed to talk to someone, but Arjun was in the middle of nowhere building fucking houses with his stupid Pakistani girlfriend. When Siddharth felt angry, he thought about telling Mohan Lal the truth about this girlfriend, but he never ended up going through with it. He suddenly felt a strong urge to speak with Luca, but Luca was still in Maryland. At least he had called a few days earlier, telling Siddharth that he had cheated on Jeanette with his hot second cousin. Siddharth was relieved to hear that Luca’s voice was back to normal — that he seemed to have forgotten about what had happened on the day before vacation. Luca had walked into his science class to deliver a note to the teacher, and that same night he phoned to say that Siddharth and Sharon had looked pretty cozy together.
“Gimme a break,” said Siddharth. “She’s my freaking lab partner.”
“Face it,” said Luca. “You’re best friends with a freaking dyke.”
“Well, you’re an asshole. Anyway, she has a boyfriend.”
“Sure, and I’m banging Kim Basinger,” said Luca.
“It’s true. I think they’re even screwing.”
At the time, saying this about Sharon had felt like the right thing to do — a way of actually protecting her — but now he felt guilty for having lied. He decided he would make up for it by being especially nice to her. He decided he would call her right now. He picked up the phone and dialed her number, and she picked up after five rings.
“Hello?”
“You’re back,” he said.
“Siddharth?”
“No, Ronald Reagan.”
“I never left,” she said. “My dad — he had to work.”
“Fucking blows.”
“Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I can tell when something’s up,” she said.
“Sorry for calling. I just wanted to say Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Siddharth — but I really can’t talk right now.”
“Oh, let me guess: you’re with your boyfriend.”
“Siddharth, I have to go.”
When he put down the phone, he realized he was a little tipsy. Fuck Sharon, he thought. He told himself that she had a wild imagination — that her boyfriend probably wasn’t even real. He picked up his Playboy and examined a cigarette ad with a weather-beaten cowboy. On the following page was a photo that awakened his crotch. It depicted a brunette dancing in a smoky room, possibly a nightclub. She had on leather pants, but nothing on top except for a string of pearls. Her hands were running through her head of wild curls. He brought the magazine to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He had just turned thirteen, and his “cock curse” had been over for several months now. He could now get his penis to perform whenever he wanted. He imagined standing behind this woman and dancing. He imagined wrapping his arms around her waist, then moving them up to her nipples. But as he got closer to coming, images of Sharon invaded his mind. A scruffy older kid was kissing her neck, and she seemed to be really enjoying it. This was the picture he focused on as he ejaculated into the bathtub.
When it was over, he ran the shower, sending the evidence of his misdeed down the drain. As he washed his hands, he heard the sound of voices. Oh shit, he thought. He shoved the magazine underneath some towels, then patted down his hair and tucked in his shirt. He was moving so quickly that he knocked his toothbrush into the trash bin.
Ms. Farber was taking off her boots in the hallway. She smiled without looking up. “Having fun?” she said. She kissed him on the head, then asked if Marc had called. She had asked this question twice a day for the past ten days, but Marc had only called once from Florida.
Siddharth stepped into the family room before speaking, so that she wouldn’t smell his breath. “He called, like, forty times,” he said. “I stacked all the messages in the closet.” He headed to the kitchen and pulled a piece of gum from the drawer with the scissors and coupons. Thanks to Ms. Farber, this drawer now always contained a little candy or chocolate. There were a few good things about her. Just a few. As he popped the peppermint stick into his mouth, he noticed Barry Uncle pouring drinks in the dining room.
“Boy!” said Barry Uncle. “I missed you, boy.” Barry Uncle walked into the kitchen with two whiskeys, which he placed on the counter, then pulled Siddharth into his armpit and kissed him.
Siddharth winced at the feel of his sandpaper cheeks, at the noxious smell of Old Spice, betel nut, and booze.
“I brought you a present,” said Barry Uncle.
“You did?”
“Yes sir.”
He followed Barry Uncle to the family room. Barry Uncle placed his drinks on the Kashmiri table and then picked up a plastic duty-free bag from the carpet. Just then, Mohan Lal walked in. He had already removed his shirt and tie and put on his peach-colored kurta. After giving Siddharth a hug, he asked Barry Uncle if he wanted a whiskey.
“Three steps ahead of you, boss.” Barry Uncle nodded toward the little round table. He reached into his bag and pulled out a videocassette, then handed it to Mohan Lal. “Boss, this is for you.” Next he pulled out a large, fork-like object with an intricately carved wooden handle. He turned to Siddharth. “Now what do you think of that, boy?”
Siddharth grasped the gift. It had two metal prongs. A slack length of rubber was connected to each of them, and at the center of this cord was a quarter-sized piece of leather.
“You know what it is?” asked Barry Uncle.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“A real weapon for a real man.” Barry Uncle snatched it back, then pulled and released the rubber, which gave off a dull twang. “With a good rock, you can kill a bird — a rabbit maybe, or even a squirrel.”